The Fool
by WinButler
Summary: 1946. It is the evening following the first UN Security Council meeting. France and England meet in their hotel room to discuss the relative merits of scotch and vintage wine, and their place in the new world. And have sex. FrUK, RusUS.


Author's notes: This is my first time writing anything like this at all, so please be a little gentle! Feel free to point out if I've got anything wrong, fact-wise. History's not my strongest suit, but I wanted to give something like this a go. Hope you enjoy!

The Fool

_January 17__th__, 1946. The Dorchester Hotel, Westminster, London. _

...

"We don't matter, do we?"

England's voice is uncommonly soft. Has he been drinking? France sits with a sigh and buries his face in his hands. He thinks probably not. Yet.

"_Non."_

England shoves his chair back with a uncomfortable scrape, and meanders towards the liquor cabinet. Scotch.

"You want anything to drink?"

"Unless you have anything that is not that foul excuse for an alcoholic beverage, no, I do not."

"This is Macallan, you uncultured twat."

France raises an amused eyebrow. "I suppose that is meant to be of some significance to me?"

England cannot help but smile as he takes his seat again. The pain in his eyes, however, is not masked – and France is not deceived. But is he ever?

"Suit yourself. I suppose you've got some ghastly vintage hidden about your person? I certainly wouldn't put it past you."

France sniffs. "Arthur, it would please me if you would not insinuate that I am able to produce large quantities of food and drink from my person at any given time. I am not Alfred."

England barely stifles the wince at the mention of the name. He sips; takes a larger sip than the last. France's eyes are on his exposed throat as he swallows, England restrains himself from putting on his scarf. He is suddenly self-conscious.

France breaks the uncomfortable pause with an equally uncomfortable laugh. "I saw him produce a hamburger from out of absolutely nowhere today. It would have been quite extraordinary if it weren't so disgusting."

"At least that much we can agree on."

"I think we're going to have to agree on a lot more than that from now on, Arthur."

France flinches ever so slightly as England bangs his glass down on the table with a good deal more force than is strictly necessary.

"France." He snaps. "Would it kill you to call me England? This is a business meeting. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" He says through gritted teeth.

France cannot hold back his laughter at this ; "So tell me, _cher Angleterre" _– and those words _bite_, because England knows that France knows how much he hates it when he speaks to him in French, especially if he is _mocking _him – "do you always drink this much scotch at meetings of a purely business nature?"

"Well, when they involve you, I'd have to say - "

"And do you always invite your _work colleagues_ to your expensive hotel suite? Because you should crush my weak heart, _Arthur_, if you were to tell me truthfully that we were all business tonight."

England folds his arms. "I thought you came to talk about _them. _Not us."

France swallows heavily. "I did. I – I do. Want to."

He rises slowly, motioning listlessly to the liquor cabinet. It's not really a liquor cabinet – simply the top of the wardrobe of England's hotel bedroom that he has stocked with liquor. He might as well make the most of this dratted hotel, after all the unwarranted expense, after all.

And what better way to do so than to invite his most treasured enemy?

"Have you spoken to Ludwig?" France asks as casually as he can, careful to keep England from hearing the waver in his voice. It is only Arthur Kirkland that can do this to him.

England exhales through his nose, noisily and entirely unnecessarily, thinks France. England only does this when he is annoyed – usually with him, occasionally with Alfred.

"_Germany. _And no, I haven't. Do you think it's that easy?"

"_Still_?"

"Yes, still. And I wouldn't have thought you'd have forgiven him yet, either." Replies England crisply.

France does not sit back in his seat, but instead pulls the chair around the small bedroom desk and sits beside England. "You truly blame him, then?"

"We've had this conversation a hundred times, Francis. Insofar as any of us can be blamed for our actions, yes. Certainly, he was influenced by his boss. Who else? But you can say the same for the two of us. And – and the two of _them_. But you can only ever change who you are when the hearts of the people that comprise you change."

"And our own thoughts and feelings? Those which are personal to us? Can we choose those?"

England lays his hand on the table. The little finger of his left hand brushes against Francis' own hand. He leaves it there. "I think after over a thousand years, you know the answer to that, Francis. Asking these questions never helps. It only hurts."

"And here I thought your heart infallible, Arthur. And yet you begin to call me Francis. That scotch must be taking effect earlier than usual. Although not by much."

"Oh, put a sock in it, you sack of wine. I didn't come here to trade insults. At least, not to do that alone."

France almost sneers at England, but such an expression would be so unbecoming he restrains himself. "So you came to lament the fact that the fate of the known world no longer revolves around you and your non-existent empire? Please, Arthur. Grow up."

Arthur's remaining scotch makes a swift exit from his glass into Francis' face.

France does not respond, not even to wipe his face clean.

"Sorry." Whispers Arthur.

...

_That same evening, across town, Grosvenor House Hotel_

"So we're agreed, then."

"Absolutely."

"This nonsense will stop."

"And no one needs to get hurt."

"No one else."

"... No one else."

Two bodies dance underneath the sheets.

...

"So. Have _you _seen Germany lately? I never heard the reason for your question, after all."

France takes another large swig of scotch, shuddering as he does so. "As a matter of fact, yes. I saw him in November."

Arthur pauses. "Oh."

"Yes."

"How is he, anyway?"

France can no longer be bothered to mask lies with pretty, pretentious words, so he spits out the truth, instead. "Awful. He's awful. I've never seen him worse."

"And he doesn't - "

"Deserve it? No. Can you imagine it, Arthur? He'll be torn apart. His very heart, ripped in two. And on top of it all, he and Italy are dreadful."

"There's a surprise."

"I think Ludwig is still furious inside with my dearest, in part. And yet he also desperately wants Italy back. And poor Feliciano. I cannot stand for a moment to see him cry the way he has been."

England is silent.

"Why are you this angry?" asks France suddenly. "If anyone should be angry, it is me. If anyone should be angry, it's - "

"Then why aren't you?"

"Because I'm _tired _of being angry, Arthur. Just as I am tired of having you scowl at me every time I use your human name, as though all it does is remind you of what you are. I'm tired of listening to those two bicker every day and night. I'm tired of watching Ludwig and Feliciano try to rebuild something that was destroyed through no fault of their own, and fail every time. And I wish you were tired of holding on to this grudge, too."

Arthur has moved to the bed. Francis has not.

Arthur's voice is barely louder than a whisper. "I'm going to forgive him almost everything, Francis. I'm going to try my very best to forget. I'm going to help him rebuild, and I'm going to do whatever I can to keep him from being torn in half by those two squabbling idiots, and I'm going to try to keep a smile on my face when I do it. But I can never one hundred percent forgive him for what he – what he did to you."

France's heart sinks to his stomach, and all he can do is leap on to the bed and squeeze England to within an inch of his life.

"Fr-Francis" England's muffled voice manages, "I think – you're suffocating me."

France releases his hold slightly, cupping England's face in his hands. "_Arthur._" He whispers.

Francis' lips descend upon his, and very soon they are merely a tangle of bodies, of limbs.

England gasps slightly and suddenly as his lover bears his tense body down onto the mattress with an uncomfortable squeak of the bedsprings. His body is suddenly flushed with a jolt of heat, and his clothes are too tight, and hot, and suffocating –

"_Arthur." _Murmurs France, kissing the words into England's smooth, delicious skin.

"Get on with it, then - " grumbles England, although his complaints are uncharacteristically half-hearted.

"You never did have any patience whatever, my dear." Smiles France, languidly running his fingers through England's hair while his other hand makes for the buttons of England's expensive dress shirt.

England's breath hitches, and he stifles a gasp as France mouths his exposed neck roughly, his tongue taking long, wicked strokes up and down England's sensitive collarbone. He _remembers. _

"Ah, _Angleterre_, _mon ange, _it has been far too long."

"Well, I hope – oh, Francis, _yes_, - I hope you're not thinking we'll be able to do this again anytime soon."

France does not deign to reply as he slips a hand into England's trousers, sneaking the tips of his fingers below the waistband of his briefs. England growls. France is not even shirtless, and here he is, half-naked and practically breathless as France teases him mercilessly.

"I always did love seeing you like this, _mon Angleterre_. Wanton and needy, legs spread out like a wore, and - "

"Shut up. _Shut up._" England pants, gripping the expensive cotton bedsheets as France wraps his lean fingers around England's cock and _tugs._ How has he become this hard this quickly? England tries to mentally chastise himself but his cynical, self-remonstratory words are drowned in a sea of moans and pants and gasps in his head, and spilling out of his mouth.

England wraps his arms around France's neck and pulls him into a deep, passionate kiss. Their tongues tangle, England's hands mold into France's stupidly silky French hair. He feels just how excited France actually is as their hips settle into one another's. England deepen the kiss as he shifts his hips up slightly to meet France's, eliciting a small gasp from the older nation. He barely notices France removing his own shirt and trousers, leaving him just as exposed as England.

As much as England hates to admit it, France is right. It really _has _been too long.

"England." Smirks France, as he slips two of those wicked fingers into England's mouth, his other hand still pumping England shamelessly. "I am surprised at you. Normally you have insulted me a round dozen times before we have arrived at this stage."

England growls as France's fingers exit his mouth and are roughly thrust inside somewhere _far_ more private.

"Ah...well. _Francis. _For a start, you seem so adorably desperate for me that you've skipped all your usual foreplay..."

"You say that as if you don't ordinarily toss a sarcastic witticism or biting complaint my way every three minutes until I am fucking you senseless, love."

"And for another..." England narrowed his eyes.

"Yes?"

England stiffens as France's fingers brush against his most sensitive spot.

"I'm...I'm _bored_ of constantly sniping at you."

"...go on." France whispers as he slips his fingers from England's tight heat and replaces them with the tip of his cock.

England grunts and digs his fingernails into France's firm arse as France pushes the very tip of his cock past the tight ring of muscle.

"Who knows how many more times we'll get to do this in the near future?" England says quietly once France is fully sheathed inside him, stilling himself.

"So you are certain we will get dragged into this mess?"

England sighs. "How could we not, Francis? Alfred, he...he still means a lot to me. Even if I mean less than nothing to him anymore."

France pulls England into a close embrace, so close he can feel the other's heart beating against his bare chest. "He wanted to protect you, England...why else would he have allowed himself to get involved in our war with Ludwig and the others?"

England snorts. "To protect the person he loves from Germany, obviously. Look, France. This may surprise you, but I really do not wish to talk about Alfred at this moment."

"You are correct. That does surprise me."

France does not warn England before he pulls almost entirely out and thrusts back in with as much force as he can muster. But England is used to it. France has always been rough with him. Because he knows how much he enjoys it. He cannot count the number of times he has fucked France dry, raw and _painful_, but so good. The number of times he has tasted the pain of France's whip against his bare skin.

It does not last long; England's eyes are squeezed shut, his legs wrapped tightly around France's waist to pull him deeper. His cock, hard and dripping with precum, is thrust against France's bare stomach with a delicious friction that England can no longer stand, and he comes, he comes _hard_ onto France's waiting body. France follows very shortly afterwards, spilling himself into England's taut, prone body as his muscles contract around him.

France pulls out slowly, exhaling and pushing back his hair, sweat soaked, from his forehead. He lies on the bed beside England. It was a long time ago that they both gave up pretence and began to hold each other after sex. England rests his head on France's shoulder and France laces their fingers together.

France is the first to speak.

"Arthur."

"Yes?"

"Are you angry because the world no longer revolves around you, and I, and the others, and our petty squabbles, and that now it revolves around _their _lovers' tiffs?"

England squeezes his hand.

"Or is it because Alfred never cared about you enough to risk life and limb for you? That given the choice, he would choose Ivan every time?"

Arthur does not lose his temper; he knows France is not trying to deliberately hurt him – he is simply asking an honest question. To which he probably expects an honest answer.

"A little of both." He answers truthfully. "Everything's going to change. Two superpowers. A superweapon. A weapon like that already in the hands of one extremely dangerous child, and very nearly in the hands of another. And it's not just that the two of us could be wiped off the face of the Earth one day if Ivan and Alfred decide to pick a fight over whose dick is bigger – it's the feeling that what we do hardly even _matters_ anymore."

France holds England tighter, pressing a light kiss to his hair. "I understand. And for what it is worth, I think you and I will always matter. And I will not believe that Ivan and Alfred are truly that stupid. The two of them have been through a lot together that we cannot really understand. I am not angry. I am...afraid."

"So am I."

...

_Grosvenor House Hotel_

"I wonder what France and England are up to." Muses America, taking a long drag on his cigarette. It was a long-running habit of both his and Ivan's to smoke after sex.

Russia shrugs, tightening his hold around Alfred's waist and leaning back against the headboard of the four-poster bed.

"Probably gossiping about us as we speak."

Ivan chuckles. "Contrary to popular belief, my darling, the world as we know it does not revolve around you. I'm sure France and England have better things to do with their time than discuss you, as lovely as you are." He adds, nuzzling Alfred's neck before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Shut it." Blushes Alfred. "Always callin' me that, makes me feel like a girl..."

Nonetheless, he leans back into his lover's embrace, moving closer to light Ivan's cigarette with his own, still dangling from between his lips.

"So tell me the truth. How d'you really feel about today?" asked Alfred, the barest hint of nervousness in his voice.

"I feel...like we can make it work. If we try hard enough."

"Do you really think so?" asked America, looking his lover in amazement. "I always thought...I mean, you're usually so damn pessimistic. And you've never - "

"I know. But I've never had to. We've been making this work since 1922, Alfred, and I'd like to believe that - "

"I _know. _But this isn't 1922 anymore. We know the limitations of this..._thing_, now, and we're not...not even really allies anymore. Are we?"

Russia tightened his hold on America. "Yes. Things can only get better from here."

...

England's eyes were closed, his breath beginning to even out. His head was buried in the exposed skin of France's neck, and France was stroking his hair gently a he nodded off to sleep.

France placed a soft kiss on England's forehead and leaned back, his head finally touching the cold pillow. England snuggled closer to him.

France sighed.

"Things are only going to get worse, aren't they, my love?" he whispered to the gently snoozing figure.

He closed his eyes, not bothering to wait for the response he knew wasn't going to come, until –

"Yes."

...

Notes

-The first ever meeting of the United Nations Security Council took place on January 17th, 1946, in the Hoare Memorial Hall at Church House, Westminster, London. Leaders from the US, UK, China, France, and the USSR were present.

-The United States developed the first atomic bomb during the years of the Second World War, and it was first successfully tested on July 16th, 1945, near Socorro, New Mexico, USA. Four years later, on 29th August 1949, the Soviet Union tested its first nuclear weapon.

-England and France are drinking a bottle of Macallan's Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. A bottle from 1946 would now cost £6,250.

I hope it was OK! My style needs a bit of work, but thank you for reading!


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